


Doubts Don't Deter Detectives IV

by amindamazed (hophophop)



Series: Doubts Don't Deter Detectives [5]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/amindamazed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I've played this game before."</em><br/>2016 Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts in the Elementary universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not at Liberty to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But all that matters is that I landed the last one.”_  
>  Watson gets the last word. Takes place at the end of Elementary 4x04.  
> Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts [1: 'Tis but a scratch](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1495226.html)

Joan’s left eye throbbed as she climbed the stairs from the subway, an unwelcome klaxon heralding the shiner that would be impossible to hide from Sherlock. There’d been a few furtive glances of curiosity or concern from her fellow passengers, but she had no hope he’d be so discreet. The fight had been his suggestion after all, and to be honest she was surprised he hadn’t insisted on attending the match himself. “Far be it from me to interfere in your vendetta,” he’d said, ignoring her scoffed reply.

She just wanted a little more time to process her response before meeting his scrutiny, to be sure of what she felt before he started mansplaining it. She knew what she was supposed to feel: disdain for the illogical premise of using violence to settle conflict, disgust at perpetuating the cycle, remorse for hitting another human being with intent to harm. What she needed to manage before entering the brownstone was her chagrin at feeling none of those things. Her gym bag pulled uncomfortably against her sore shoulder, and she resettled her grip and her determination as she rounded the block home.

Luck or the tact he so rarely indulged allowed her to shower and change unimpeded. When she finally turned to face him in the study, Sherlock pulled up short with a blink of shock that immediately transitioned into an evaluating squint as he looked her up and down. She stood silent, steady and resigned to accept his histrionics. Instead, he drew back his shoulders and dropped his chin, snapping to attention as if he were about to whip up his arm in salute. “Congratulations are in order, I see.” His mouth shifted to a tight flat smirk that utterly failed to contain his smugness. Her face responded in kind but a flinch cut her smile short, and she brought up a hand to her tender jaw. He raised his arm out wide to direct her towards the kitchen stairs. “If you would do me the honor, Watson, let’s get to tending those marks of your triumph. I know just the thing.”


	2. First you figure out what each one means by itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then what _do_ I want?”  
>  Watson makes a request. [hey look it's more from last JWP's Reichenbach variation which I wanted to have finished by now...]  
> Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts [2: Roll the dice](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1500503.html)  
> 

Joan had lost the thread of Sherlock’s diatribe some time ago, too content to be home again, the two of them in the same room and a fire in the fireplace and the rough plush of the library couch against her cheek. It took her a moment to realize he’d stopped speaking, and she rolled her head up to find him. He was staring at the other end of the couch, where her feet lay bundled under three blankets, and as she followed his gaze to track why, the hot water bottle she told him she no longer needed dropped with a lewd squelch onto the floor. He jerked at the sound, blinked, and hopped forward to pick it up. “I’ll just—“ he said, and was on his way down to the kitchen before she could respond.

“I don’t—“ _need that_ , she thought, letting him go. Her feet were fine now, and she wiggled her toes under the layers. Might not be a bad idea for her back, though, and she carefully rearranged herself, trying to avoid the bruises. 

He’d been hovering at arm’s length for a week now, as soon as she’d been released, constantly looking to perfect her recuperation with this gadget or that PT exercise. At first she thought he’d been forcing himself to remain in her proximity out of guilt, but upon careful observation, she thought maybe she’d got that wrong. The hesitation in her presence, the lack of eye contact, the rapid flow of speech: those weren’t attempts to keep his distance. Or rather, they were, but because he was fighting the impulse to come closer, not to back further away. Apparently he had concluded, without consultation, that returning to the status quo was preferable to her. Before all this, she would have said she didn’t mind either way; she exchanged hugs and back-rubs with some of her friends and didn’t touch at all with others. As long as she’d known him he’d kept himself apart, not just from her but from all their acquaintance. He clearly preferred go avoid friendly touch and she had no problem with that. Without consultation, she too would have assumed distance was preferable to him. 

Now, however, she wasn’t so sure, and not just about him.

She knew his obsession with her care wasn’t paternalism, it was terror. Fear that he would lose her again. She shuddered at the unbidden memory of car alarms and thick clouds of dust billowing across a street. God knows she could understand that. And she couldn’t promise him it wouldn’t happen, any more than he could. Their future would always be veiled by unintended consequences and the shadows of the violence that so often created the landscape of their work. They’d do what they could to prepare and prevent, but like everyone else, all they really had was now. And each other.

So much had changed for her at the bridge. That stark clarity she didn’t know she should trust at the time and certainly not now, in the loosening memory of it. Then, she had nothing else to hold on to but knowing that after all their plans and preparations, it was what she had to do. She’d been ready to give up everything. She thought she had. And then they’d won. _Would you look at what you accomplished? And now you’re freaking out because you want to ask somebody to hold you and stroke your hair and tell you it was well done? ‘Somebody?’ Who are you kidding?_

He was crossing the lock room babbling about therapeutic benefits of dry versus damp heat when Joan pushed herself upright and blurted, “Would you just give me a hug already?” Her ears rang with her vehemence and her eyes slammed shut. In the startled silence around them, she tested the support of the bandages spanning her ribs with a cautious breath and let it out slowly. She couldn’t honestly say this was more terrifying than the bridge, but the hyperbole was a comfort. In the darkness behind her eyelids she mumbled, “Please?” and tried not to wince. It was a simple request and really it shouldn’t— 

He was there, on bended knee in front of the couch, his arms hesitant against her sides, his hands still clutching water bottle and heating pad in his haste. He set them down behind her and repositioned his arms with more confidence as she pulled him closer.

He rested his head against hers. “Oh Watson. I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Mary Oliver's poem ["Breakage"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/41917)


	3. One Foot Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This was a mistake."_  
>  Watson will not be moved. So to speak. A 442b set before Watson met Sherlock.  
> Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts [3: A cardboard box](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1506654.html)

On their first — and last — anniversary, Ty gave Joan a box. When she told the story to Jennifer later that week, she’d barely got that sentence out before Jennifer had gasped and grabbed Joan’s left hand to check her ring finger. “Oh my god you scared me! Did you finally break it off? How’d he take it?”

Joan’s initial confusion shifted to firm denial. “Whoa, not that kind of box. Though he’s clearly got a traditional trajectory in mind.” She shook her head and sighed. “This was bad enough: cheesy and a bit presumptuous at the same time. An empty cardboard box.” She held out her hands about two feet apart. “Because paper is what you’re supposed to give for a first anniversary gift, you know? And because he wants me to move in with him.”

Jennifer’s sharp bark of laughter turned a few heads their way. “He honestly expects you to give up that apartment?”

“I know. He’s never liked it.”

“What? It’s rent-controlled, what’s not to like? And you have an actual kitchen!”

“After this, I’m kinda grateful, actually. I mean, at least he didn’t suggest moving in with me.”

Jen leaned forward across the cafe table. “So was that it?” 

Joan grimaced. “I couldn’t.” Her mouth twitched. “He got us in to a really good restaurant.”

“Joan!”

“I know, I know. I’m gonna. Soon. He didn’t press — he was a bit distracted by the reservation he’d pulled off thanks to some favor from the Mayor’s office — but it’s only a matter of time before he tries some other strategy to ‘close the deal’.” She waved air quotes.

“He didn’t actually say that?”

“No. I’m being a little unfair. But we are so clearly not on the same page. Not even in the same book. I mean, I’m pretty sure he believes I’ll go to back to medicine eventually.” She glanced up and was grateful Jen didn’t comment on that; there was a reason she’d called her instead of Emily tonight. “His fantasy of us living together clearly doesn’t include me elsewhere for months at a time with clients.”

“Did he say something about that?”

“He said something about being sure we could handle the logistics of merging.”

Jen snorted. “What a romantic.”

“To be honest, I don’t need the hearts and flowers part, but I just can’t have that conversation again.” Joan sighed. “So I guess I’ll have to have the other conversation instead.”

“Do you get to keep the box, at least? You know, since it’s empty. Like your heart.”

“Stop,” Joan laughed. “It’s not funny.” 

“No, it’s tragic.” Jen nodded solemnly. “He gave you a box.”


	4. Traces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Your phone. There’s an application on it which allows me to track you.”_  
>  Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts [8 The Wonder of the Age](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1532620.html)  
> Watson hates this.  
> Set during my Reichenbach variation WIP, when Sherlock is in hiding far from the Brownstone, and they communicate via unpredictably timed secure private networks arranged by Everyone.

Watson paced back and forth in front of her basement desk, in and out of the webcam’s frame. “Dammit, we said no risks! If you can track my phone, then she can track that it’s being tracked and she’ll know it’s you.”

“No risks? Are you seriously claiming you’re taking no risks? You, who insisted on staying at the Brownstone alone, who refused to train with a firearm, let alone carry one? Who parades herself all over this bloody city waiting for Moriarty to become bored enough to use you for target practice? _She_ has none of your inhibitions about guns.”

“If you can’t trust me—“

All at once he remembered hands framing his face, pressing hard against jaw as if trying to forestall the sudden dissolution of the central fact that had shaped — warped — his life for over two years, leaving only an oily sickness in his mouth. Watson’s echo of The Woman’s words pulled him up short, and he put up a hand, half turning away from view, to quell his stomach. Watson huffed impatiently but didn’t speak, letting him regroup. He didn’t turn back when he spoke again, not able to say what he needed to say and look at her at the same time.

“You know this isn’t about lack of trust. Quite the opposite; I am overflowing with the stuff. I trust Moriarty to relish the opportunity to take your life almost as much as I trust you with mine. We can also trust her to rely heavily on mobile technology to communicate and to deceive: her entire network is strung together with encrypted texts and trojan apps. Which is why we need to let her in to be able to communicate our own deceptions under the shadow of her superiority complex.”

When she didn’t respond, he turned back to find her staring into middle space, weighing what he’d said. He continued, “She’s going to suspect I’m alive until she’s given a body she can test and destroy herself. This is no more confirmation than her own paranoia has already offered. We’re not going to convince her I died, so we can alternately encourage her to waste her time on leads that won’t confirm it either way, like this tracking business, or disrupt her various financial machinations, which will in turn distract her further.”

“All right.”

“Honestly, Watson, when you said ‘no risk’ I assumed you were being sarcastic because nothing in this scenario is without risk. It’s a wonder to me how I must continue to make this point and how you continue to act as if we have any choice but to persevere, whether despite that risk or because of it.”

“All right! I said all right. You’re right. Okay? I hate it, but okay.”

“My aversion to your part in this nightmare knows no bounds.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel any better.”

“No. I’d bake a double-batch of Yorkshire pudding myself if only my lovely accommodations had an oven.”

“I should have had you teach me how, before.”

“It will be my first lesson, after.”

“It’s a date,” she said, but the warning tone cut across her words and the secure connection shut down at once, leaving her laptop screen black. “It’s a date,” she assured her blurry reflection. “It’s a date.”


	5. Nearly as Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“In the meantime, I thought I could dig into the M files, you have so many; I can help.”_  
>  Watson doesn't know what she's getting into.  
> A piece from a WIP in which Watson and Sherlock don't have the same memories of how they first met, because [spoiler]. Watson remembers what we know from the show. Sherlock thinks they just met the day before.  
> Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts [9: Quote of the Day: "Please stop petting the test subjects."](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1538423.html)

Joan had included a slip of paper with her name and number among the bills she gave Sherlock at the library, although after their conversation she didn’t expect him to use it. The text she received the next morning was so familiar in style she read it as his automatically before noting it was an unknown sender and registering surprise that he’d reached out at all, and so quickly. _mt MdsnSqPk sw cn 1330-1415._

She arrived at Madison Square early, just past 1pm, walking south down Broadway, and saw him seated hunched over one of the metal tables at the edge of the green. Between his shaggy hair, heavy stubble, and that old plaid scarf, his appearance reminded her of the early days, until she got close enough to see how gaunt and worn his face was. He didn’t look up as she approached. “I’m a bit early, I know. Would you rather I come back at 1:30?” 

He was flipping through a looseleaf notebook, his face half hidden by the battered top cover he held up vertically instead of lying flat. She couldn’t see the contents, which she assumed was the point. After a moment he snorted impatiently and jerked his head toward the chair across from him. Once she was seated, he slammed the notebook shut and gave her a long hard, unblinking stare. 

“You offered your assistance yesterday.” 

“I did.” 

“You indicated a rather broad range of availability.” 

“If I can help you with something, I’d like to do that. Yes.” 

“You can’t possibly imagine I’d trust you. You work for _him_.” 

“I know you don’t trust me. And yes, your father offered me a job once. But I don’t work for him now. I’m not here because of him.” 

He narrowed his eyes, unconvinced, then all at once shoved the notebook across the table toward her. “It can occasionally be useful to my process to hear the first impressions of a naive observer. Tell me what you make of these.” She suppressed her amusement at the implied insult and pulled it closer to open the cover, hand reaching to turn over the the first page before she’d quite registered what it was. 

Inside were ring-bound plastic sleeves showing extensive wear with scuff marks, smudges, and tears making it difficult to see their contents clearly, but she recognized them right away. Each one protected a color photocopy of one of the paste-up notes sent by M. Her breath caught in her chest, and Sherlock stiffened, leaning back slightly and then snatching the binder away from her. The metal chair scraped harshly against cement and clattered to the sidewalk when he bolted upright. 

“What do you know?!” he shouted, livid. “You know what these are! How could you know? Who are you? Who do you really work for?!?”


End file.
